


Witching Hour

by maggiedragon



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Birthday, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 06:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14764304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiedragon/pseuds/maggiedragon
Summary: “I would very much like for the seventh to just be your birthday again.” Theand notwent unspoken. And not the day where their Floo call had just been justoffenough that Theseus had caught a Portkey to New York. Not the day when MACUSA had torn Credence to shreds. Not the day when Graves' Aurors had found him trapped and dying of thirst, the Imperius Curse rendering him so docile that he couldn’t even act to keep himself alive.[December 7th is a day that carries too much weight.]





	Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [na_shao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/gifts).



“Do you even want me to come?” Theseus asked via the Floo. His pajamas were slung low over his hips and his eyes were half-lidded with sleep. With the time zone difference between London and New York, the Brit was nearly always getting ready for bed by the time Graves and Credence came home from work.

“Of course we do. Don’t be foolish,” Graves told him. He tossed his coat into the waiting arms of the moving coat rack and went to the end table, pouring himself a few fingers of brandy. Theseus could smell the spice and vanilla scent drifting through the flames, rendered faintly acrid by their sudden intercontinental transport. 

“It’s December 7th.”

Graves' fingers stilled on the brandy snifter for a fraction of a breath before he lifted it to his lips and drank. 

“December 7th is your birthday, Thes,” he finally said.

“And--”

“And I would very much like for that day to just be your birthday again.” The _and not_ went unspoken. And not the day where their Floo call had just been just _off_ enough that Theseus had caught a Portkey to New York. Not the day when MACUSA had torn Credence to shreds. Not the day when Graves' Aurors had found him trapped and dying of thirst, the Imperius Curse rendering him so docile that he couldn’t even act to keep himself alive. 

“Please come,” Credence said. He’d stepped out of shoes to hurry barefoot across the living room, reach through the fire for his other lover. “I don’t know if we’ll be good company but come anyway. I’ll make a pie.”

Theseus pressed a kiss to the scarred palm. “Lemon?”

“Lemon.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

The 7th fell in the middle of the week, but Theseus worked through the day, had dinner with his parents and Newt, and then caught a Portkey to New York where Graves and Credence were waiting for him by the Salem memorial. They both looked worn, like the hellish anniversary was draining them both thin and taut and only the knowledge that this was Graves' city, Graves' rules kept Theseus from reaching for both of them. 

“Thes,” Graves said and stepped forward to shake his hand. “We’re glad to see you.”   
“Glad to be here.” _You look like hell,_ he didn’t say. He was sure Graves knew. 

The older man offered a thin, quirked smile. “Let’s go home.” 

 

“Thirty-three is a nice round number,” Theseus mused against the slight indent of Credence’s stomach, the words coming between light kitten licks against his skin, making the younger man shiver and bite back laughter. “Think I’ll stay thirty-three for awhile.”

Graves' snifter floated through the air over their heads, followed by the decanter of brandy and Theseus found himself trying to remember if he’d been used to seeing Graves drink so often before this past year.

“What are you going to do when you go grey?” Graves asked.

Theseus pushed the worry aside, stretching across the tousled sheets to steal a sip of the brandy, letting it run warm and thick down his throat. Graves was feeling stable enough to tease and for tonight, it would have to be enough. 

“Shave my head in shame and go into public mourning,” he answered. 

Graves arched an eyebrow. “You’ve never minded my grey.” 

“Oh, but I have notoriously bad taste in men, after all,” Theseus answered and burst into laughter at Credence’s indignant protest. 

 

The brandy, of course, was for the nightmares. 

Theseus woke to the sound of Graves choking on air, the sweat-sheen on his skin visible in the dim orange street light leaking through the bedroom window. He sat up, but Credence was already awake, curled over the older man as he whispered. 

_Percival, Percival. Wake up. You’re safe._

Theseus spelled fairy candles into the air; the spell wasn’t bright, but it was enough to insist that Graves wasn’t in the hole Grindelwald had left him in. Then he slid out of bed and went into the bathroom for a glass of water. 

Light. Sound. Liquid. Space. How to summon Percival Graves back to himself. The first three Credence and Credence could provide. The last was the hardest: stepping back and letting Graves lead, trusting he’d tell them what he needed. That he would find the rest of the way back on his own. Sometimes Graves left the house-- walked out into the night for hours. Sometimes he stoked the fire in the hearth until it roared and buried himself in his sketchbook. Sometimes he drank. Sometimes he curled shaking against Credence until dawn came. 

This time, he drained the glass of water Theseus brought him and then pushed the Brit flat onto the bed. 

“Perce,” Theseus got out and then lips were on his, wet and cold at first, then hot and lithe and tasting like fear. Graves' hands were on him, warm and callused over skin and scars. They tugged already at the hem of his pajamas and Graves didn’t understand until the fairy candles illuminated the clock on the mantel. 

3:17 am. The morning of December 7th in its witching hour and Percival Graves was working his own kind of magic. Not a summoning, not the well-practiced litany _(light-sound-liquid-space)_ that Theseus and Credence had learned so well. An exorcism. He was going to make Theseus scream so loudly he drowned out the ghost of Gellert Grindelwald, and the Brit wasn’t too much of a prude to admit his cock twitched in anticipation at the idea. 

“Happy birthday to me, I guess?” Theseus laughed breathlessly.

Graves growled something against his throat, a _will you shut up, Scamander_ that didn’t need to be voiced. He bit him next, pulling a bit of Theseus’ skin between his teeth to leave a mark next and the sharp surge of pleasure shut Theseus up for a little bit longer. His mouth drifted lower, scraped over his pectoral muscle, licked and teased until the Brit’s nipples stood hard and aching. 

But he hadn’t spoken yet. 

“Perce.”

Theseus tracked his lover’s movements, brushing his fingers over his jaw and lips. Out of the corner, he could see Credence watching them, teeth pressed in his lower lip in desire and anxiety as well. 

“Perce, love. Look at me.” 

Graves finally complied. Strands of hair dangled in his face. His eyes were dark; his pupils were wide, but seemed steady. Still, Theseus had to be sure, had to hear him say it because this was the kind of magic that could so easily go bad. 

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” Graves paused, licked his lower lip. “I want to. Let me do this, Thes. Let me make today about you.” 

Theseus swallowed hard. The quiet voice and the damp lower lip went straight into his bloodstream; the words uncurled the anxiety that had made him hesitate. Graves wanted this-- maybe even needed it-- and now it was easy to shudder and comply, lift his hips and let his lover strip him.

He’d taken his eyes off Credence--- and that was the moment his other lover pressed close against him, all warm limbs and wet tongue. Theseus jumped at sensation, inhaled sharply as Credence bit, left a mirror bruise on his other collarbone, a partner to Graves' own. Theseus tugged him closer for a kiss, stifled the sharp gasp against the younger man’s lips when Graves' lips wrapped around his cock. 

Merlin, if Theseus had ever complained about his lover being _task-oriented_ , he took all of it back. Graves licked and teased, scraped his teeth until he had Theseus shuddering under his attentions. He was hard and aching already, caught between his two lovers in the silence of the witching hour. Credence was moving against him, soft sounds of desire like Graves was tormenting them both and Theseus did his best to kiss back, but then Graves did _something_ , some little trick of the tongue along the frenum and the Brit couldn’t breathe. All he could do was groan, mouth slack and gasping against Credence’s lips. 

Theseus didn’t have enough hands, one loosely threaded through Graves' hair, another sliding down to wrap his fingers around Credence. He wouldn’t, couldn’t burn like this alone, couldn’t let his own wrung-out voice be the only one echoing in the stillness. Lightning leaked into his blood; his mouth had gone dry. Teeth scraped along his cock, fingers wrapped around the soft skin of his scrotum. 

Theseus saw stars when he came. 

When he woke, only Credence was with him in the utter wreck they had made of Graves' duvet and sheets. 

“Mmph.” Theseus rolled and pushed his head into Credence’s chest until the younger man obediently shifted to entangle their bodies more thoroughly.

“Morning, love,” Credence murmured against his hair. 

“Morning,” Theseus mumbled in return, tempted to let his eyes flutter shut again, drift off in the clear morning light and the warm of his lover’s skin. Only a faintly acrid smell made him hesitate, wrinkling his nose. “Is the house on fire?” 

“Percival is making breakfast.” 

_Smoke_ for an exorcism too. Salt to purify, but smoke to fill every inch until there was no space left untouched. Theseus’ skin was still damp with sex and sweat; the brownstone would smell like rashers and burnt toast for hours, and Credence’s voice in his ear sounded like a benediction. 

“Happy birthday, Theseus.”

**Author's Note:**

> In the Western Christian tradition, the hour between 3 and 4 a.m. was considered a period of peak supernatural activity, due to the absence of prayers in the canonical hours during this period.
> 
> This was supposed to be fluff. Let me know what you think in the comments or hit me up at https://maggieandthedragon.tumblr.com/


End file.
